


An Affliction You Share

by theoldgods



Series: Part of Our Game [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Handcuffs, Interrogation, Masturbation, Older Woman/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Sexual Roleplay, Sub Mycroft, Texting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 06:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: Mycroft calls in his favor: asking Alicia to help him more directly right the wrongs of their last interrogation.





	An Affliction You Share

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another bead in my string of Alicia/Mycroft porn, and as such it references earlier encounters of theirs in this series, though it should mostly stand alone as well.
> 
> Many thanks to [Ariane DeVere's transcript of 4x01](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/62955.html); although I didn't end up doing extensive callbacks to actual canonical dialogue, it was very helpful to have at hand. Thanks also to Nicola and Lou, as per usual, for Britpicking and cheerleading. Any remaining mistakes in British vocab and the like are mine, and corrections on that point are welcome.
> 
> I reblog BBC Sherlock/Mycroft/etc., among a bunch of other stuff, at [my tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) if that's your speed.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket as she buried her face deeper into Anthea, though she did not check it until half an hour later, when she was left alone, still faintly sweaty and breathing hard, on her office sofa. She wiped her chin as she unlocked her phone.

 _Regarding that favor._  

 _More details would certainly be helpful._  

The reply did not come until hours later, after she'd buggered off work after dinner in a pique of moroseness and ended up sitting freezing on her own patio contemplating the new year.

_Tomorrow?_

She tightened her grip around the glass of hot toddy she'd poured for herself and left untouched, cooling, in her reverie.

_That’s one detail._

The ellipsis of an impending reply appeared and disappeared four times over three minutes as she sipped the lukewarm drink before her. The context for his hesitation became clear with the actual text.

_I can guarantee access to a certain interrogation room after 9 pm._

She laughed aloud, thin and easily swallowed by the night, as a tingle ran up her spine. She drew the folds of her woolen shawl more tightly around her while she replied.  

_And who might be watching this time?_

_All dark._

Another thirty seconds of the three dots, her fingers clenching in wool, before the second and third texts, in quick succession.

 _I need to get it right._  

 _Please._  

_I can’t be so patient a second time._

She spent five minutes finishing the hot toddy and imagining Mycroft’s wrists handcuffed to an interrogation table, twitching fingers, the twist of bones and muscle under metal, alabaster against steel. Her palms were sweaty and her head light by the time he replied.

_I am counting on that._

* * *

The building was cool and the observation room itself stiflingly warm as she glanced through the one-way mirror to where Mycroft sat, running his fingers over the sparse metallic tabletop. On the windowsill next to her was a single set of handcuffs.

She rapped on the glass and watched him, ashen-face and faintly trembling, stand. 

“An excellent use of a favor, really,” she said as he hovered in the doorway. She nodded at the cuffs. “Yours or mine, darling?”

His voice wavered under its caustic sheen. “You’re in control.”

“That wasn’t quite the question.” 

“Feel free to use them on me.” He turned back into the interrogation room, his hand braced against the lintel. “I said I was here to do it correctly this time.”

“I can’t _actually_ arrest you, even if you think you deserve it.” She smiled at the back of his head as his fingers tightened. “How do you want me?”

His shoulders shuddered, infinitesimally small and yet a live wire straight down into the pit of her stomach, sending a shock of goose pimples across the backs of her arms. 

“Can you—”

When he did not continue, she reached out to brush her fingers over his. His skin sparked under hers.

“Mycroft?”

“I think this is wrong,” he told the empty table. “Is this wrong?” 

“Misappropriating Her Majesty’s facilities? Yes, it is.”

“More like—” he looked back at her, an instant’s meeting of their eyes, before jerking his attention away “—misappropriating you.”

Something that was neither anger nor tenderness wound its way around her throat. 

“I’m not—” 

“Porcelain, I know.” Mycroft’s voice was whisper-soft in volume, though perfectly audible in the chill seeping in from the interrogation room. “I just—I use people.” 

“So do I.”

His face, turning toward her again, was thin, his eyebrows lifted over the slate pools of his eyes. “I used you then. Poorly.”

“Hardly traumatic.” She shook her head. “I’m not still angry, for God’s sake. Is that what you think?”

He bit the corner of his mouth. “No.”

“Liar.” She fingered her watch, the edge of her skirt, watching the jumping muscle in his cheek as his eyes followed the path of her hand. “My issues have nothing to do with you detaining me, or indeed you at all except for what you drag across the floor in the middle of the night like the sour old mog Woody tried to keep one winter.”

“Tried?”

“It was bloody feral, Mycroft.” His chin was stiff in the curl of her palm as she cupped him. “And in that way absolutely nothing like you.” 

His tongue slid out to brush her, his eyes partially closing. She stroked behind one of his ears.

“That’s a good kitty.”

“I want yours,” he said from behind fully closed eyes. She pinched his earlobe and watched his smile deepen. “That’s why I texted.”

“You don’t say. Foolish boy.” Her voice was smooth nonetheless, dripping with entirely too obvious contentment; Mycroft with his eyes closed, leaning barely noticeably into the palm of her hand, was exquisitely, hypnotically pleasing. “Do you want me to fight back, is that your complaint?”

His breath stuttered against her. “I want to do it again. I want to lose again—correctly.”

She rubbed his ear a final time before releasing him. “Then let me in the room. Ask your questions; we’ll see if my answers have changed.” As she slid past him into the chilly air, she added, “Bring the cuffs.” 

They clunked onto the table between them when Mycroft entered some minutes later, back straight, eyes black and inscrutable. Her pulse thudded along her hipbones as he stood behind the opposite chair, his lips curling. 

“Tbilisi.” 

The actual interrogation she remembered in bits and pieces, an overbright haze of confusion and disgust, highlighted by Mycroft’s icy demeanor and frequent glances at the mirror to whomever—Sherlock, she had to assume—had stood watching. This time he was slick with sweat despite the chill and faintly vibrating, his voice loud, bordering on overcompensatory.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re familiar with it.” 

“The capital of Georgia? The nation, of course, not the—”

Mycroft’s hands tightened along the back of the chair, knuckles white, heat flaring in his face. She let the spasm pass through him before continuing. 

“I daresay this is related to something important.” 

He threw himself into the chair and leaned across the table, tangling his fingers in the handcuffs. 

“Well spotted, my lady, if one would call treason ‘important.’” 

“Extremely so.” Her heart was pounding in her wrists, her lower abdomen, the base of her throat, her legs twitching with the desire to run, leap, flip. She could feel herself grinning, cracked open, overwide. Mycroft blinked, pressing the cuffs against the table, as she slid forward on her chair. “I will do whatever I must to help, you know that.”

“You can begin—” he cleared his throat ”—with telling me what you remember of AGRA.”

“My old brief who fetched up horribly dead in one certain Tbilisi?” Her shiver was real enough—the room seemed to be turning icier by the minute—though her smile only grew as she watched Mycroft fidget. “Did they turn up again _un_ dead?”

“That’s—not relevant.” He closed his eyes momentarily, and another shiver ran into her cunt. When he opened them again, his face had been schooled back into stone, and his voice was gunshot-quick, rattling off his tongue. “You held the brief, six years ago. They were yours. They died.”

He was far worse than he had been in reality, nearly bursting with his desire to see this through already, receive his penance, buy back his soul. She sat further forward, hands against the biting cold of the tabletop, inches from his own, crossing her legs until a twinge ran from her loins to her chest. 

“I did not kill them.” 

He leaned back, away from her presence, depositing his hands in his lap as he scowled. “Why should any of us bother, when all it takes is a phone call to let someone else do our work for us?”

“That  _is_ rather how it all works, Mr. Holmes. We’ve known each other a long time; I’d hate for you to have already forgotten that.” Her fingers flexed, brushing the cool metal of the cuffs. A shudder ran across his face. “I did not kill them, and I did not ask anyone to do so. Are you suggesting that someone _did_?”

“She catches on at last.”

The bile in his voice was nearly overwhelmed by his wide eyes. She slid the cuffs to one side to place her hands in the center of the table.

“Why, might I ask, would you think such a thing of me?” 

“Are you implying you are too good to be a suspect, _my lady_?”

She raised an eyebrow. His body was tightly positioned on the edge of his seat again, his face crabbed, his breathing shallowly visible in his chest and throat. When she did not answer, he pressed the back of one hand to his mouth before continuing in a steadier voice.

“The handler is all too often the weak link, in the end, my lady Smallwood—too much ease of access to information, too much opportunity to let it slip through one’s fingers.”

“What on God’s green earth would have been my motive for blowing them?” 

He shivered. “Why does anyone do anything?” 

“Oh, it’s nihilism, is it?” 

He scowled. “You are under investigation—”

“I’m sitting in a cramped and cold room having my guts half-heartedly torn at by Mycroft Bloody Holmes, who can’t even mount a case for why—”

“Your code name. _Love_.” He managed to make it half scornful and half nearly reverent, the breathless admission of a boy offering a clever retort to his teacher. “Rather handily known by the hostage-takers, as they let slip in a moment of weakness.”

“Oh, did you find them and ask them, then, darling?” She interlaced her fingers. “More legwork; you _are_ a busy boy.”

“You know perfectly well I did no such—” 

“Who did?” 

“I do not need to disclose information to a suspect.” He was rising to the challenge, his earlier sweat and trembling hands forgotten in his genuine indignation at even this mildest needling. “Don’t be a fool, Alicia.” 

The protege, disappointed in his teacher’s stupidity. She cocked her head to one side. “He’s watching, isn’t he, your mystery man?”

Mycroft frowned. 

“Your partner in crime, your torturer, your legwork man.” She licked her lips and focused on his as she dropped the next bit. “I believe his legal name is _William_ , is it not?”

His lips thinned. She turned her attention to his dark, faintly wild eyes. 

“He is not here.” True in the moment, a lie, strictly speaking, when referring to reality, that gray specter of half-remembered interrogation and accusation, a Belstaff disappearing around a corner while she, burning with residual anger at the stupidity of it all, had left the premises. Mycroft’s voice, in the here and now, took on a faintly questioning aspect. “He’s not here.” 

“If you say so, Mr. Holmes.” Her feet were aching in her heels, and she kicked one off, leaving it on the floor as his eyes flickered toward the approximate position of her legs under the table. “He’s your source for this little nugget, is he not? I do hope he was sober at the time.”

For a moment Mycroft could not speak; his face had gone bone-white with rage, his shoulders tight. Her cunt throbbed; as he cleared his throat, she spread her legs, hitching her skirt halfway up her thighs. 

“He is extremely good, Mr. Holmes. I commissioned him, as you’ll remember, though that little matter of him being shot dead in the chest sealed my husband’s fate in the end.”

“Lord Smallwood’s mental health is not my brother’s problem.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Nor is it mine.” 

“Your brother’s problem is believing every crackbrained, clever thing that comes into his head, because it might be right ninety-five percent of the time, but when he’s wrong, he is gloriously wrong.” She slid her other shoe off, kicking her feet against the underside of the table while Mycroft sniffed. “An affliction you share, wanting to believe his delusions like a good big brother should.” 

“He is not wrong.” A whisper, now, wobbly. “Not about AGRA.” 

“Not about something so close to his heart, as it were.” She smiled beatifically in the face of Mycroft’s darting scowl. “Certainly they were blown, Mycroft, that bit is obvious. It just wasn’t me doing the blowing, in any sense of the word.”

His exhale rang in the emptiness around them. “Lady Smallwood, be serious.” 

“I’ve been falsely accused of all sorts of treasonous behavior today, Mycroft.” She curled a little finger around the handcuffs, following the path of his gaze toward her hand. “I can assure you I’m taking that extremely seriously. Did he really hear them use my code name?” 

“As good as.”

He shifted in his seat, the scowl deepening on his lips, one eye on the handcuffs—rigidly petulant and stupidly beautiful, all things considered. A happy lurch went through her stomach. 

“Dear lord, and here I thought the Holmes brothers might understand the concept of confirmation bias.”

Mycroft’s voice was soft as he looked down at the table. “If not you, my lady, then who?” 

“Lazy, sloppy reasoning.” Her sternness burbled in her throat, emerging so much brighter and less excoriating than initially intended. “An unimaginative game of process of elimination, senselessly running in circles while an actual mole continues their game unhindered. You and your brother are so disappointingly far from extraordinary; one almost wonders what the point is of _any_ sort of freelancer, AGRA or Holmes.” 

His body had gone as soft as his voice, his lips parted as he sagged in his chair. “My lady.”

She waited, abdomen tingling, as his throat worked. When thirty seconds had passed in agonizing silence, she leaned forward to take his chin in hand. He did not shy away from her grip.

“My lady.” His mouth was hot against her skin, though the rest of his face had gone clammy. “My lady, Sh—my brother was wrong.”

She tickled the edge of his ear; he stifled a moan.

“Was he?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft closed his eyes. “He was lazy.” 

“And what does that make you?”

His lips twitched. “An enabler of mediocrity.”

She released him, leaning all the way back as he opened his eyes again. Her skirt hem remained across her upper thighs, exposing bare skin above her suspenderless stockings. 

“Too mediocre for me to bother any further with?”

He swallowed. “Please no. I can—let me make it up to you.”

“And how will you do that?”

Mycroft, vibrating faintly, gathered the handcuffs and got to his feet. He crossed the room with quick, jerky steps, stopping just off her right shoulder, before sinking to his knees and placing the cuffs on her lap. He focused his gaze on her knees as she slid the fingers of one hand into his thinning hair.

“I’m of a mind to cuff you and have you eat my cunt, pet.” 

His touch burned as he ran a finger around the top of her stocking. “ _Please_.” 

She knocked his hand away, albeit gently, keeping hold of his wrist as he replaced his finger with his open mouth.

“You are stupid eager,” she murmured as his tongue licked a drop of cold sweat from her thigh. ”Perhaps just stupid.” 

His whimper, muffled against her skin, faltered as she slid one cuff around the captured wrist, though she did not close it.

“Do I want use of your hands before I lock them up?” 

“Please.”

The click of the pieces locking into place around his wrist echoed in her fingertips alongside his soft moan. His fingers flexed, scrabbling in midair, as she reached for his other wrist. 

“Forgive me for their not being padded, I suppose,” she whispered into his ear. He shuddered, goose pimples erupting in the wake of her breath, as she locked the second cuff into place. “I do hope you included a key somewhere.”

Mycroft’s answer was a grunt. She released him slowly, sitting back up straight in the chair, her fingers running along the hem of her skirt before drifting to the top button of her blouse.

“Oh God.” 

His arms jerked toward the chair, though all that accomplished with his hands bound was sending him nearly headlong into her legs. She laughed as she undid two buttons, freeing the tops of her bare breasts to the cold air while Mycroft sighed. 

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t _deduce_ , Mycroft,” she said as she held a hand between her thighs to warm it. “It’s bloody cold in here.”

“I wasn’t looking at your chest.” His lips scarcely moved as he spoke, his eyes trained on her thighs.  

“I could put them away if you prefer.”

He slid his chin against her knee, gaze flickering dutifully to her breasts. “When did you remove—all _day_?”

“Good lord, no, it’s January.” She hiked her skirt up to her waist; he swore softly as she moved her hand up to touch her curls, her thumb sliding down against her clit. “Buildings, even this one, have restrooms where one can change, if you’d forgotten.” She slid the tip of her index finger inside and sighed in relief. 

“Oh my God.”

Her cunt was, of course, delightfully warm against the interrogation room’s chill. Mycroft’s gaze, on her thighs, her breasts, her folds, hardly settling in one place before darting to the next, warmed the base of her spine as she added a second finger to clench around.

“Oh Christ.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you get out much, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, her tone rising as her thumb began circling her clit.

“Why can’t I—please.”

“I thought you liked to watch.” She clenched as he moaned into her knee. “I wanted to watch—you watch.” Her breath stuttered at the back of her mouth as she rubbed harder, wrapping one leg around his flanks to pull him in closer. “Shouldn’t take long.” 

She closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the ceiling as she began to increase the pace of her thumb and the two fingers inside. His gasping, ragged and increasingly wet, fell in line with the strokes of her wanking, and in the darkness under her eyelids she could imagine his gaping mouth, his fingers jerking ineffectually at his cock through his trousers and the restriction of the cuffs. She whimpered at the vision, her fingers pistoning faster, though her mouth twisted into a smile at his answering bitten-off groan.

By the time she opened her eyes, Mycroft was sweaty at her feet, his forehead resting against her knees. She slid forward on the chair, enveloping him fully between her legs and lifting his head with one slick hand. 

“I hope you’re not too tired yet.”

He shifted to put her right leg over his shoulder; she wrapped both legs around his neck, her stockinged feet knocking against his back as he leaned forward until his lips were mere inches from her. 

“I’m sorry, Alicia,” he whispered into her thigh, sighing as she buried the fingers of her right hand in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Thank you.”

She pushed his mouth onto her cunt.

His tongue was hot against the chill around them as he buried it inside her. His lips worked at her frantically, nearly snagging several times on her curls before he could settle himself into a proper rhythm, with his nose slotted against her clit. Her arse lifted as he set to work in earnest. 

“Yes, please,” she told the ceiling as heat rose between her hips. “Quite the show, if anyone’s out there watching.”

He exhaled against her, gasping for breath as his nose continued rubbing. “They’re—not—” 

“But you make such—a pretty picture. Voyeur become exhibitionist, all that rot.”

Whatever reply he might have made was lost in her moan as he slid his tongue back inside her, her thighs tightening yet further around his neck and shoulders. When he ran his mouth from her clit to her cunt and back again, her entire lower abdomen cramped while she whined in pained delight. 

“God, yes.” She was panting, her heart pounding at the base of her throat and in her cunt. Her hips rocked, pushing him further against her. “S’il te pl—”

The world went momentarily black, almost startlingly so, though the pressure between her legs only continued rising. She groaned and pushed harder back against the stroking of his nose, riding the pressure of his face for a solid minute until her thighs spasmed and the world spiralled around her, flashing white and then black behind her closed eyelids. She was halfway down the hole, groping her way back into full awareness, Mycroft kissing and mouthing all the while, when, with his particularly strong thrust into her, she fell again, moaning as a second miniature wave crashed through her hips up to her brain. 

When she came back to full consciousness, Mycroft’s eyes were overbright as he sat watching her, his hair matted with sweat against his forehead. Gasping, she pulled herself into a fully upright position and reached out for his joined wrists. She paused at the stain spreading across the crotch of his trousers.

“Dear God.”

His cheeks were pink. “Thighs,” he whispered, voice hoarse. 

Her laugh surprised her, half choking her, while Mycroft flushed yet redder. 

“I’m honored,” she murmured eventually, clearing her throat as she helped him to stand. “Something about riding your face until you come in your trousers is nearly as endearing as it is pornographic.”

He fixed his eyes on her sweat-slicked breasts. “Glad to be of service.” 

She ran her fingers around his bound wrists, smiling at the flex of bones and skin under her touch and that of the handcuffs as he continued to stare at her chest.

“You really don’t see them much, do you?”

He bit his lip. “You are currently the only one, my lady.” 

“Me and your charming friend, one of each?” She got to her feet and massaged one of his ears as he leaned against her. “That’s also rather unnervingly sweet in its way, unless you’ve more dicks stashed away elsewhere.”

Mycroft shuddered, his chin sliding over the top of her head. “No. People.” 

“People,” she agreed, looking up at the strangely peaceful fluttering of his postcoital eyelashes. When he did not move, she continued, “That can’t be comfortable; God knows I wasn’t born a headrest for the world’s giants.” 

He sniffed, stepping back. “Be taller, then.” His arms rattled; he grimaced. “Windowsill, observation room, furthest edge from the door: there should be one key.”

She slid back into her heels. “And if, God preserve me, there are two?”

“There won’t be.” Mycroft shifted from one foot to the other. “There is one key, just like there was one mole who was _not_ the Lady Alicia Smallwood. Just like there are no cameras and no one watching.”

“A pity,” she replied, heading for the door. “I’m not much into treason, but you know by now that I like to watch. And I like mementoes.”

He coughed. “My friend and I do nothing on tape, my lady.” 

She paused with her hand on the doorknob before looking back at him. “You’re offering a live demonstration one day.”

He bowed, handcuffs clinking ostentatiously, and she hid her laugh in the crook of her elbow as she went for the key.


End file.
